of
some spangled lights glittering through the gloom, our sensations were
far more akin to disappointment.

"Bexar at last, praised be Saint Michel!" exclaimed he. "It has been
a long and dreary journey." Here I pressed Donna Maria's hand, and she
returned the pressure.

"Two days of disaster and sore suffering!" Another squeeze of the
Senhora's fingers.

"A time I shall never forget," muttered he.

"Nor I," whispered I to my fair companion.

"A season of trouble and distress!" quoth the Fra.

"Of love and happiness!" muttered I.

"And now, my worthy young friend," said he, addressing me, "as we are
so soon to part,--for yonder is Bexar,--how shall we best show our
gratitude? Would you like a 'novena' to 'Our Lady of Tears,' whose altar
is here? or shall we vow a candle to Saint Nicomede of Terapia?"

"Thanks, holy Father, there is no need for either; mine was a slight
service, more than requited by the pleasure of travelling in your
company and that of this pious maiden. I have learned many a goodly
lesson by the way, and will think over them as I wander on my future
pilgrimage."

"And whither may that tend, Senhor?"

"To the shrine of 'Our Lady of Sorrows' at Aguaverde, by the help of
Saint Francis."

"Aguaverde!" exclaimed Fra Miguel, with a voice that bespoke anything
rather than pleasure; "it is a long and a dangerous journey, young man!"

"The greater the merit, Father!"

"Trackless wastes and deep rivers, hostile Indians and even more cruel
half-breeds. These are some of the perils," said he, in a voice of
warning; but a gentle pressure from the Senhora's fingers was more than
an answer to such terrors.

"You can make your penance here, young man, at the Convent of the
Missions. There are holy men who will give you all good counsel; and I
will myself speak to them for you."

I was about to decline this polite intervention, when a quiet gesture
from Donna Maria arrested my words, and made me accept the offer, with
thanks.

Thus chatting, we reached the suburbs of Bexar, and soon entered the
main street of that town. And here let me record a strange feature of
the life of this land, which, although one that I soon became accustomed
to, had a most singular aspect to my eyes on first acquaintance. It
was a hot and sultry night of June, the air as dry and parched as of
a summer day in our English climate; and we found that the whole
population had their beds disposed along the streets, and were